I’m going to come right out, and say it: I’m chubby, y’all. I know, I know. Shocking. But not as shocking as what I look like in a cardigan.
From the time I entered into the cut-throat jungle of elementary school until now, I’ve always had a little extra.
From writing cursive to typing this article with chicken nugget fingers, I’ve been a slightly cooked marshmallow with a knack for not fitting in T-shirts from Old Navy.
Sort of like what Annie said, it’s a hard-knock life for us chubby people.
I can’t even walk up the stairs without feeling like I have diabetes. I can’t even look at water without imagining guzzling down a sugary Coke. My kidneys are murdered, guys. Murdered.
Guys, I’m so chubby I am physically attracted to my food. Like, singing-“A Moment Like This”-by-Kelly Clarkson-to-a-plate-of-mac-and-cheese attracted.
I like to make my food feel special. Build up its self-esteem. Take it out to dinner and a movie. Write cheesy poetry about the stars and the moon. And if my food ever asks, “Do I look fat in this bun?” I always give a reassuring answer of love and devotion. 
Because I know in return, it’ll make me feel like the only boy in the world.
At first, I was always insecure about looking like a premature Michelin man. Getting invited to swimming parties, am I right? Yes, I admit, I was that guy who wore a T-shirt into the pool, who dipped his toes into the pool, lying about how cold it was. It was never cold. Never.
But as time went on (and the hell that is middle school ended), I began to love my chub for what it was.
The only reason I couldn’t was due to all the expectations a “normal” male had to fit. Play football. Lift some weights.
Throw back some protein shakes (I drank Slim Fast one time. Does that count?) Instead of joining in that testosterone-fest, I read books, watched television and became close acquaintances with Chester Cheeto who may or may not be on my speed dial. 
I’ll never forget the time this girl in my fourth grade class told me to wear a bra. Either she was just jealous of my curves because she didn’t have any, or she was just being a cruel child just like every other child that is cruel.
Even though that was so long ago, I carried that comment with me for a long time. I became an expert at crossing my arms and standing a certain way.
I would wear hoodies in 100 degree weather even after my mom threatened to quit buying honey buns if I didn’t take it off. That was the hardest dilemma of my life.
To quote a brilliant person, “I would rather be fat and happy than be skinny and sad.” By no means am I hating on skinny people.
If you’re happy, I am happy. And it should be vice versa. If I’m skipping and whistling my way to Taco Bell to gorge myself with multiple 5-layer burritos, you should be happy that I am happy. I don’t think you realize how happy I get. Going to the gym makes me very sad. Spiraling depression sad.
So, if you are chubby, love yourself.
Look in the mirror, and say, “That’s right. I know I look good,” while holding your head and man boobs high.
Don’t be paranoid everyone on campus is staring at you on the verge of screaming in horror. 
Because they aren’t. Do what I do. Sit in your car, and happily sing-cry to Christina Aguilera’s “Beautiful.” Works every time.